Love from A to Z(29)

I looked at the ceiling. I’d been imagining setting the strips and dots of wood on it, gluing for the most part, drilling for the heavier bits, and now my plans were shot. There was no way I’d let Connor in on this kind of work. He had no sense of finesse and would ask a million questions, mostly having to do with why I was doing this.

There was no why. Other than wanting to see what I’d sketched in my Marvels and Oddities journal come to life.

And wanting to keep my mind focused on things that didn’t bring me stress.

“So, what can I do to help? Walls need another coat of paint?” He was unmoving, arms still crossed in the doorway, jaws set.

Stubbornly caring while being obtuse was his shtick.

“Let’s go.” I wiped the speck of paint on the back of my right wrist on my shorts.

I wasn’t going to change my clothes. I was just going to get this done and over with.

Connor smiled and punched a victory fist before bounding up the stairs.





ODDITY: THE FRIENDS YOU’RE DEALT


This may be an awful thing to say, but none of the guys I hung around with in Doha before university were friends I’d choose on my own. We were kind of thrown together, and it’s the law of third-culture kids, kids going to school in a country other than the one they called home, that you friend-up fast, with whatever people you’re dealt. Otherwise you get overtaken by the isolation that comes from navigating a new place that you know will be temporary.

Living with your parents while they work abroad is sort of like a long vacation you’re sentenced to, with the promise you’ll be coming home again one day. It’s not truly home, and yet you’re expected to make it comfy.

Most of the other kids at DIS were children of oil industry executives from England, the US, or Australia, or professors at the many offshoot American-college campuses in Doha.

Most of them took their sentencing in Doha as a way to have tons of fun—well the tons that were available in Qatar.

Which meant each week we watched the same, limited-fare choice of movies at the theaters, sometimes over and over again. Ate at the same best burger places. Went dune buggy riding when a parent offered to take us. And hung out at the same people’s houses, usually the hugest houses in our circle of friends.

For some reason, the circle I ended up with consisted of people who were loud, easily excited about movies and music, and into nothing I was into.

But they were also squeaky-clean. Meaning I didn’t have to compromise anything with them—like my being a practicing Muslim. They were okay not boozing and, other than a couple who smoked once in a while, were not into drugs, either.

They were the clean crew at DIS. But that was the only way we were similar.

They say friends are the family you choose.

And yeah, I guess that’s sort of true, if family is made up of people you put up with because they care about you and you them.

? ? ?

“Remember we thought Madison and Jacob wouldn’t last?” Connor drove fast, navigating a roundabout while weaving to get to the exit lane as quickly as he could. He was roommates with Madison at UC Berkeley, having been best friends with her throughout DIS. “They did.”

“That’s cool.”

“College on two different continents. And they did it. Well, Madison did it. She was the one skyping Jacob every single night.” We were approaching the mall. “Did you meet anyone?”

“Nope.”

“I sure did. Someone older.” He laughed, turning the steering wheel fast to make the left turn into the parking lot. “Nancy. She’s a TA. Was my TA for my intro to international economics course. And totally hot. Totally older, like four years. I turned nineteen in January, so we’re legit.”

I nodded, picturing Connor with an older woman, even ten years older. It was an easy thing to imagine.

“She knows I want to go into politics, and she’s helping me figure it out.”

“Cool.”

“Hey, by the way, your friend is going to hang with us,” he said, glancing at me as he waited for someone to back out of a parking spot.

“Friend?”

“At your house, your dad’s party. Zee something. The girl with your little sister, with the head scarf?”

“Zayneb?”

“Yeah, Zayneb. Forgot her name. She’s with the girls, and Emma Phillips—who, by the way, hasn’t given up on you, according to Emma Zhang—said they’d catch the movie with us after shopping.”

I nodded again, groaning inside, willing myself to not flip the sun visor mirror down and check my hair in it, check if I had paint flecks on my face.

So much for my plans for today.

So much for avoiding a fourth impression.





ZAYNEB


TUESDAY, MARCH 12


ODDITY: FAILS


EXHIBIT A: ME IN MY first yoga class.

My resolution to become calmer didn’t make it through even one yoga class.

Yoga was a lot of breathing carefully—“down to your toes,” according to the instructor—while doing things my body had never done before, so I left to find more pleasurable things to do. Like go to the bathroom. (Before I escaped, Auntie Nandy gave me a look of triumph as she rocked on her butt with her legs almost wound around her head, in sync with the other women near her. At that moment, I’d been lying spread-eagle and defeated on the mat, so I acknowledged her prowess by whispering, “I hail your yoga mastery, Auntie Nandy, but this disco queen is going to the bathroom.”)